Very Short Stories, Week 20
Hey everyone! Happy Labour Day, if you celebrate it!
I was enjoying the four day weekend with my hubby, but he’s fallen ill. That means constant snoring is in the background as he naps. Fingers crossed he gets better soon because it sucks when he feels so shitty!
Personally, things are starting to feel more normal since Jasper passed away. I’m crying less, but the last couple nights, he’s visited in some wonky ass dreams so I don’t know what he’s playing at!
That all means my very short stories aren’t as sad, depressing, or negativity. Some are, dare I say, hopeful.
Anyways, hope you enjoy!
Lies are #tangled webs
When the Truth
Alone and unspoken.
Lies are poison
We drink and spread
Like dinner rolls
Lies are the half truths
We trust to soothe Pain
And dines on our hopes.
Lies are vicious Weaponry
His strength was a #fragile thing, hid behind stone walls made of pure silence. She longed to shatter them and cherish the words he would whisper. But he was a statue. The odd crack pierced his thick skin and his soul was beautifully broken in those moments of despair.
The sweet #million tomato plant had grown beyond the garden’s borders. Its vast collection of ripening fruit blocked the zucchini plants and choked the other tomato plants. Roots provided strength to endure the storms that came and went. Yet its own weight toppled its branches.
#Somewhere out there lies the reason she exists. If only she could separate it from life’s numerous obstacles. Instead, she wanders from problem to problem, fixated on everything, everyone, but her. If only the voices would stop shouting, putting fresh tears in her eyes.
#Forever, she swore on their wedding day to stand by his side. His screams in bad moments didn’t deter her nor his dark days of depression. Their shared laughs and smiles united them like the knots they tied in matrimony. Together they were strong and she would remind him. Always.
Street lights remained barren as the #gloaming descended. The asphalt paths were seas of black. Curtains blocked shut windows and multiple locks clicked into place. Any hint of light vanished as the people waited in fearful silence.
The scratching was heard first.
#Love is a stitch, a knot
It ties lives together
Loose or tight
Its thread can break
Wear and tear
It can be replaced
With #Love again
And words of care
A broken stitch
But take heart
Best not to break
A bond of #Love
Here I am – again – sitting in my computer chair, and feeling the need to write something. Part of me screams it should be soul changing. Another shouts it should be real and personal. And yet another voice joins the choir, albeit quietly.
That quiet voice is the one I am listening to, at least today.
It tells me it doesn’t matter what I type as long as I am typing something. Whether it will grab an audience or connect with only me… It will serve its purpose in pushing me to write. That is all I can ask for right now.
Sadly, my energy does not meet the requirements of the other voices in my mind, and so that epic tale will wait for another day. However I am hoping to start posting my musings into the realm of poetry later this month, maybe alongside some attempts at short stories.
I would like to query more literary agents, but have added a few individuals into my test group, and will be waiting for their comments on my book. Maybe my manuscript needs another go with the fat trimmer and polisher. Time will tell on that score, and I will move forward from there. Then, perhaps, my inner guilt will slumber once more.
There is one person I must thank for the time being, and that is my husband. He has been very supportive of me and my dream. I just feel he is growing more and more impatient about it. Can’t say I blame him, but I am not ready to give up just yet, (or at all). I may struggle with my insecurities and doubts, and yet… there is some will and strength inside to grab onto tightly.
All of us have power, waiting to be turned on and utilized. Instead, maybe we all just need to flip the switch for ourselves?
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day: ‘I will try again tomorrow.’ ~ Mary Anne Radmacher